Where is my Frog?

We were on the balcony reading yesterday evening. Taking it easy. Power disappeard. Looked out over the few remaining lights in the hills for half an hour and then went for dinner to Manoj (he makes delicous food). Small room, no furniture except for a shelf, and a bed. A bucket of water, some pots, a large gas cylinder connected to a single stove on the floor. He sat in front of the stove with a pot of milk on the boil. We derobed peas and put them into a bag made out of newspaper. He chopped a daunting amount of chillies and wedged potatoes. He put the chillies into a pot with ghee and the tiny room felt like a teargas aftermath. Into a little bowl with water he added all the spices, chilli powder!, tumeric, ground cumin and coriander, and garam masala. Then he poured that into the pot with the breadrolled garlic. Pressure cooked it. In the meantime, Nawal made chapatti dough on a large plate. After cooked, took the pressure cooker off. Heated up a few pompadoms on the flame. Then created a sweet dish with ghee, mysterious flour, and water. This was a long process of stirring and folding and scooping. Just before the meal he made the chapatis in the pan and finished them off on the flame.

He told us of this girl in his Biology class at university. They had to dissect frogs. She accidentally cut a vein and would have failed the exam. So she swallowed the frog, and when the lecturer came by she said she didn't get a frog.

I was struggling to finish the meal. It was hot. I suspect the room was even getting hotter. He replenished my dangerous vegetable stew just as I was looking forward to relax. Sarita was in the same boat. They each had a chilli between their thumb and index finger, taking a bite inbetween each mouthful. He said it was 'not possible for you' to do.

We smoked beedies.